


Age of Light

by Abyssal_Paladin



Series: When the Fire Fades [1]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls II
Genre: Leeroy's full canonical timeline, M/M, OC Chosen Undead - Freeform, OC Darkwraith, a whole lotta gay, completely no smut this time but there will be gore, lightly implied Solaire/Chosen Undead, this will likely span DS1 through the start of DS2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18243020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssal_Paladin/pseuds/Abyssal_Paladin
Summary: Paladin Leeroy, the gilded champion of the Way of White, everyone knew his story: how he went into the catacombs in search of the Rite of Kindling, and was never seen again. But what if fate took a different turn, leaving the undead paladin questioning everything that he knew of? History will come to change, taking him along with it as he witnesses the Age of Light in a way he would never imagine.





	1. Firelink Shrine

_“Your name is Leeroy, Paladin Leeroy, and you will be our greatest champion against the threat of the encroaching darkness of men.”_

His brows furrowed, eyes drifting down to his gauntlet covered hands. His name, indeed, was given to him, when he opened his eyes in that room. Yet that was not his name, for he had awoken as a man, not a babe swaddled in their mother’s arms… so what is his name, his _true_ name?

Paladin Leeroy twirled a lock of his hair around a finger. The more he thought about it, the more a hole seemed to open in the middle of his chest: the curse of the undead eroded the memories of those afflicted, leaving them unable to remember anything of their previous lives before they became one of the accursed –

_Who am I?_

The undead were cursed creatures in the living world, particularly in Thorolund. He shuddered at the memory: grotesque they were indeed, walking zombies that seemed to have been drained of everything vital inside of them. To think that they were at one time humans, horrific, truly horrific. Nobody deserved that kind of fate, even the worst of the criminals that he had seen before.

A prickling sensation on his chest was an uncomfortable reminder. Gods be damned them all, he was an undead too, branded with the fiery ring that marked each and every one of the accursed, that mark right above his heart. But why had they lauded _him_ , when the church condemned all the other ones, even the ones that have yet to show signs of that madness? If that isn’t hypocrisy at its finest, then there would be no fitting word to sum that up.

“ _Your thoughts seemed to be quite troubled, master_.”

Sanctus’ – his beautifully made, blessed golden shield – voice murmured inside of his mind. The paladin glanced at it with a smile twitching on the corners of his mouth. Men were unpredictable, particularly so in this cursed land of the gods (quite the oxymoron there), but weapons would never betray him.

“It is a difficult task to calm my mind when there is so much that I don’t understand,” for one, how much had he lost before he bore this mark, a thought that had his brows scrunching up even more; although keeping a low voice, nobody needs to think he mad, talking to his armaments. “None of this feels right. None…”

“ _Beh, who needs to think on the history when there is a task at hand for the lot of us to complete?_ ”

Grant rumbled in a way that made his head vibrate a little. The great hammer laid in the grass by his side, polished since his last foray into the darkness of the catacombs: “ _Master, is it not the task that we have been assigned to bring back the treasure that the wretched necromancer stole from the Gravelord Nito_?”

“That it is, though the more I consider about it, the more the church feels untrustworthy.” Heh, those were bold words that would have landed anyone who uttered that in his homeland somewhere with cuffs and maybe even executed under the pretense of being afflicted. Even Leeroy had to chuckle a little at his own words, though he quickly fell back into the seriousness that the memories evoked.

“In all honesty, I do not know whether I wish to continue abiding by the tasks that they have assigned me in this land.”

Both Sanctus and Grant fell silent at the declaration, enough to send a sense of shock across the spell forged bond between them –

“ _Master,_ ” Sanctus begun, hesitation clear in his bell – like voice. “ _We were created by the members of the church, wrought by the flames of Allfather Lloyd, uncle to Lord Gwyn… However, if that is what you so choose, then know that we will follow you_.”

“ _Aye, you alone retained enough faith and strength to wield our might, as well as a heart of righteousness_.”

Leeroy’s mouth twitched, and this time he allowed a smile. Yet again, in this cursed land where men fought each other just to remain alive for a little longer, sane a little longer, declarations of loyalty were most welcome, even if they were assurances that he had heard countless times as he traveled those lands before he arrived here.

His eyes went back to the bonfire before him. The coiled sword embedded deep into the ground, held there by a mound of bones that he really will not need to know the origin of; coils of orange flame running up the blade.

An imitation of the First Flame, this truly is.

Yet even then, it provided warmth, seeping into his flesh even through his gauntlet and armor. No harm in enjoying it a little more before he must dive into the darkness.

“Good day, friend!”

Leeroy’s head shot up at the voice. Speak of the one himself: “To you as well, Sir Melchior.”

Melchior of Astora made his way to the circle around the bonfire, removing the signature helm of Astoran elite knights after setting aside his sword and shield. The knight shook out unruly locks of bronzed hair, amber eyes twinkling with smile crinkles; rolling his shoulders with a groan and all but dropping onto the grass.

“You seem to be extremely troubled, good Paladin.”

“Ah, that…” His voice trailed off. How was he supposed to explain his questioning of everything that he was meant to stand for?

“Merely some personal things that have been on my mind, nothing that you need to worry yourself over.” Leeroy attempted a smile. “But I thank ye for your concern.”

A nod: “A friend that you are, if you are in need of anyone for an ear, I am always here… hah, that is, provided I am not running around for the Lords and their quests that is.”

“Speaking of which,” Leeroy’s gaze fell to the glowing black sprite that danced between the knight’s gauntleted hand. Humanity sprites were said to be present within every single undead, and the more pure of heart anyone was, or the less number of times they had died. Though what makes them precious was not that, it was how consuming one such sprite could haunt that gnawing in the back of their head, slowing the process of hollowing for just a little longer, or one could sacrifice them to a bonfire, kindling the flames and providing even more of the healing estus that the undead depended on.

“My duty lies before me, soon I shall have to return to the depths of the catacombs to face the necromancer that I must defeat.”

Melchior’s expression went from a cheery smile to a straight line. The Astoran nodded, extending his palm towards the flame though his eyes locked onto his own: “The one that you said stole the power from the Gravelord?”

“Indeed.”

“Alas, I wish I could be of aide, but I lack in a divine blessed weapon and could only be extra weight. Best of luck to you, friend.” A firm shake to his shoulder, amber eyes unwavering. Not that he could blame him: who could? Embers needed to craft divine weapons weren’t anything one can easily find laying around in the world, and the only one that he knew of that existed in the land of men lays in the hands of the church.

“My thanks, and to you as well. Where perhaps are you considering heading for next.”

Golden eyes gazed off into the distance.

“Sen’s Fortress, the only obstacle that stands between me and the city of the Gods. If what that toothy serpent told me was correct, then that is where I shall find out what I must do next.”

“Anor Londo…” Leeroy trailed off. He had heard of the radiant city before, though who hasn’t? It was mentioned everywhere in the books at Thorolund. A glorious tribute to the might of Lord Gwyn, the city was said to be, built for the gods that had forged the start of this world with the First Flame; full of golden spires and hidden wonders.

“What I would give to see for that place with my own two eyes.”

“Perhaps I can figure out a way.”

Silence save for the soft crackling of the bonfire before the two of them.

“Well, I shan’t trouble you more, the trip through that blighted swamp was a curse and a toll upon me that will require a little rest.”

Was that just him, or did his voice crack a little towards the end of his words? Nevertheless, Leeroy nodded politely, moving to the side a few inches as Melchior unfurled the bedroll he used; unfastening the belts and pieces holding on his leather and steel cuirass then setting it aside. If he chose not to tell, then it would not be of his place to pry.

The paladin stood with a groan, rolling his shoulders. Lords he needed something to do, anything to drag out the mission that scratched at the back of his head like an annoying itch that he couldn’t quite reach.

Firelink Shrine was as close a home as one could get in this time, what with so many kingdoms coming under the dreaded affliction. Truly saddening…

Leeroy leaned against a broken segment of the wall. The charms dangling from his golden cuirass jingled softly, rustled along the sacred ointment smeared white fabric. Gaudy, though undeniably useful, he mused as he picked at a stray thread. His armor had essentially became a second layer of skin, shed only for when he needed a bath; this gleaming thing formed out of chainmail, white cloth, and gilded plates inscribed with spells that would shield him from the corrupting influence of the necromancers within the crypt that laid beneath the shrine.

A shiver raked up the paladin’s spine. Something was off –

Leeroy side eyed the stairs leading down to the firekeeper’s abode. Though saying it was an abode would be overtly glorifying the literal _cage_ the poor woman was confined in, maimed and left there just so that she would never be able to leave behind her duty.

 _What kind of_ monster _would do this_?

Hurting those that have never done anything to hurt them, that was a crime that so many have enjoyed committing and too little are punished for. At least he did what he could do stop that before he left his homeland: why hadn’t the church done their part to stop all of this?

“Your thoughts are audible even from here, paladin.” The voice of a certain golden clad knight raked over his ears. Leeroy suppressed a scowl: damn near forgot that he was here, of all the inhabitants of this shrine. Why Melchior has chosen to free this man from his cage was beyond him. Even someone nearly hollowed could have felt the sinister aura that surrounded the one that called himself _Lautrec the Embraced_.

“And I do not recall that any of it concerns you.” He shot back, albeit snappily.

“It’s about her isn’t it?” The Carimian knight nodded with his head at the cage. Sunlight gleamed off golden armor, though mostly the pair of arms melded onto it that gave the knight his moniker: eyes felt even through the grille of his helmet. “That girl, the little firekeeper, trapped there with no one to protect her save for that cage.”

“Implying something there, _Sir Lautrec_?”

“Perhaps, _keh heh heh_.”

Indeed, it would be a good idea to keep an eye on this man, especially around this time. There was just something that Lautrec was not telling him, not that he could read any of his expressions with the crown – like helm that concealed his face. And he truly did not like _any_ of that, there was just too much of that sinister air for him to let his guard down.

“I would advise,” Leeroy started, his fingers curling into a fist. What he would _give_ to be able to plant a solid punch into his face right this _second_ … “To _not_ carry out whatever you have in mind, Lautrec, lest that some _unfortunate accident_ is to happen and leave you gone for the next few days, or forever.”

“Are you…” The knight stood, though the paladin stood, unflinching. He was at least a good head taller than the Carimian, what is there to be afraid of?

“ _Attempting to threaten me? Knight Lautrec, the Embraced?_ ”

“I am merely stating the truth.”

His gaze went to the dual shotels at the man’s hips, then back at the golden visor hiding his visage. The twin curved swords were wicked sharp, designed to reach around shields and dig into any spaces between armor there is. Not a set of weapons to be fighting up against with his style, if Lautrec truly decides to fight him here and now.

Lautrec growled, though settled back into the patch of grass that he had been sitting in.

“Watch your back, Paladin Leeroy.”

Leeroy gave him a narrowed glare: “I’ll be sure to have that in the very forefront of my mind, _Sir_ Lautrec.” He spat the word out. Even calling this degenerate anything remotely close to an honorable title left a bad taste on his tongue.

He pivoted, briskly making his way back up the stairs to the upper level of the shrine. Gwyn help his hand, one day he would most definitely snap and _end_ this bastard once and for all. And when that happens, that will likely be a sight that would make his name go down in history as a brutal murderer, _hmph_.

“ _Why not kill him now, and save yourself the trouble, master?_ ” Grant rumbled. Leeroy stopped. A hint of bloodlust bled into the voice inside his mind. For a second, the paladin toyed with the idea. Who would know if he actually took out the so called “Fina’s beloved”? Nobody, that is, no one would suspect him, not the Astoran Knight, not the toothy serpent that seems to know everything that goes on in the shrine.

“ _But would that make you any better than he_?” Sanctus’ voice chimed in, firmly so. “ _In fact, it would likely place you as low as he, master, and you are better than that_.”

“Perhaps… this does little to change that I do not trust him in a thousand years.” Leeroy huffed, returning to his own seat. He picked up Sanctus, running the oil rag he was using earlier over the smooth surface of the shield, wiping it clean of any more specks of dust that could have clung to it. Andre was right about one thing:

 _Weapons would never betray you_.

“ _Then when are we going to go down to the catacombs? The necromancers being alive is an itch that I long to scratch_.”

“ _Soon, let the master have his moment of rest_.”

Leeroy crossed his legs. His armaments could bicker all they want amidst themselves, but for now, he had something else that he needed to do.

The scroll he fished out of his traveling provisions was old, though well kept; unfurling it on his lap.

Everyone in Thorolund knew the story of the Lord Gwyn. First of the gods, the one that lead the rebellion and the war against the everlasting dragons, the one that had found the soul of light within the First Flame and brought light upon this world. Every miracle came from a tale regarding the immortals after all.

And this one, particularly, was one of his own favorites.

He smiled to himself, one stretching wide enough it honestly hurt his face.

 _Wrath of the Gods_.

A primeval miracle, far less tame than many of the ones wielded by the Thorolund clerics, casted to generate a powerful blast that would severely injure or kill anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the radius. Only a handful of special chosen were allowed access to this untamed tale of the gods, yet even they were closely monitored lest they abuse it.

So what is there to _fear_?

The depths of the dark tombs that laid underneath the shrine? The numerous creatures controlled by the necromancers that patrolled the dark halls? The fact that the Gravelord Nito slumbers not more than a short trek away from there?

Leeroy shook his head, though it did nothing to shake away the thought that still ran rampant.

There was little he had to fear, so long as he ventured with care through the catacombs. Uncaring of one’s surroundings were the first steps to failing, and to dying again.


	2. Catacombs

“ _Finally, I thought you would take another day to dilly dally among the inhabitants here_.” Grant grunted. Sanctus tutted in disapproval, prompting a quiet chuckle from the Paladin himself; lifting both of his weapons into his grip. The day had came at last, when he finally deemed himself ready to dive into the darkness to finish the quest he had been given.

“Leaving now?” The Astoran knight asked, looking from the bonfire to him. Leeroy nodded.

“I’ve stayed long enough, it’s time that I come to complete what I came here for.”

“Be safe, my friend.”

“And the same for you, when you decide to tackle the fortress itself.” He placed a hand on Melchior’s shoulder, giving a firm shake. Shame that he would never be able to see the city of Anor Londo for himself, even if it may only be once in his lifetime.

Every step he took towards the graveyard, his heart thumped a little faster in his chest. Uncharted territory, that place is, filled with perils that only a few knew of and only in bits and pieces that are barely reported back to the church in his homeland. Nay, he can’t stop here now of all times, it would be utter and complete _humiliation_.

Passing by the snake that seemed to have taken root from somewhere deep under the shrine – gah, what _even_ is that smell for the love of all? – Leeroy’s eyes followed the outline of the stone path leading down into the cemetery. It was carved roughly out of the stone of the mountain on which the shrine sat, rough steps overgrown by the vegetation in the process of being reclaimed by nature.

Masses of gravestones sat in patches at the end of the step, most of the writings carved on them too faded to be read. And for as far as the eye could see, the gravestones spanned the graveyard.

A chill raked up the paladin’s spine. Bleached white bones were scattered around most of those patches, dried out in the sun and left to be forgotten. Of course, at least, that was what it would appear to be to any bystanders who knew naught of the wickedness going on in the dark of the catacombs: the second he walked close enough, those skeletons would reanimate, and they would continue to rise until their dark master is slain.

“ _That is why you have us, after all, master_.” Grant laughed. “ _Keep those fiends down for good, making the way to their master so much easier_.”

“And where would I be without you both.”

The paladin took a cautious step forward. Nothing, not a twitch from the piles of white bones, nothing just yet at least:

He tensed the second his foot touched the last of the steps leading into the graveyard. What happened next was near immediate: piles of bones rolling towards each other, as though grasped by an unseen hand, assembling quickly into the form of skeletons grasping rusted weapons that were long abandoned and crusted with dried blood.

Empty sockets bore into him, chattering as it stumbled forward, several others trailing it; brandishing a rusted falchion. Fortunately, with the lack of a brain and the lack of a mortal soul, all while being piloted by a master as nothing but a small puppet by the necromancers made the things extraordinarily foolish and easy to evade.

One quick sidestep and a swing of his hammer demolished three of the reanimated skeletons, breaking bones and scattering them across tone steps. Leeroy’s brows furrowed: familiar feelings of his body moving to its own accord returned.

Sidestep, swing, dodge back with a quick backstep, swing with Grant towards the cluster that would have been comical with their stumbling over each other in their haste to reach him. If his life wasn’t in immediate danger of being snuffed out, that is: kicking one of the skulls off of the nearby cliff. Leeroy’s gaze turned to the rest of the skeleton troupe, only three more left from the earlier eight.

The three remaining skeletons glanced at each other, chattering incomprehensibly. Could those things _actually_ communicate with each other?! It shouldn’t be possible, should they? They were only mindless puppets controlled by masters that he is yet to see –

“ _Crush them_.” Grant laughed inside his mind, echoing through his skull. Yes, this time, he had no qualms about following the subtle but insistent singing of bloodlust. Leeroy quickly slung Sanctus onto his back, gripping his great hammer with both of his hands and swung again.

Whatever bone the hulking weapon unknitted, falling into a disarrayed pile on the ground, though only for a few quick moment before they were also crushed into several smaller pieces. What started quickly, ended just as quickly, leaving the path down into the cave that was just around the corner of the stairs open.

“ _Pinwheel won’t stand a chance_.”

“ _Lets not be too proud now, pride cometh before a fall_.” Sanctus chastised. Right, that, that was important as well. How many heroes perished just because they underestimated their foe was all too many: Knight King Randal was one such man, foolishly believing he had what it takes to challenge the powers of Sen’s Fortress before he disappeared and was never seen again.

The walk down the stairs were precarious, each step kicking up dust as he approached the entrance of the cave.

Leeroy stopped. As far as he could see, there was darkness, pitch black that seemed to be thick enough to be cut with the blade of a sword. Oh dear lords… and he was supposed to go down there? To find _one_ necromancer amidst the hundreds, maybe even thousands of corpses seemed like a rather impossible task even for an undead to the likes of he –

“ _Master, why are you wavering? You are stronger than most of the undeads around here, you’ve made it from Thorolund to this cursed kingdom with your lonesome, yet you doubt yourself_?”

He chose to not reply to that. He made it far, indeed, though a lot of it was because he never had to deal with something like this while on the way. There were still foes along the way, cursed hollows that tried to fight him with broken weapons that barely scratched even the surface of the ornate armor currently covering his body.

One step became another one forward, into the darkness of the tombs beneath Firelink Shrine. Maybe it was just him, each one of his footsteps seemed to echo louder than usual: kicking up clouds of dust that slipped into the thin gap that served as the thin eye slit. He coughed hard, tears rising to the corners of his eyes.

The air of the catacombs was musty, fortunately lacking in the rotting smell of death that usually came with the cemeteries, though still thickly choked with enough dust (he really didn’t want to know what it was made out of) to force more tears out of him. Leeroy cursed under his breath: at this damnable rate, it’d take a miracle to be able to find his way through the entire area, _much less_ to find each of the cursed mages that controlled each of the areas.

“Alright now, where are you…” He murmured. The paladin risked one look over the side of the ledge he stood on. His heart rose to his throat, jumping up several paces, knees nearly gave out beneath him. Holy lords, perhaps he was just overreacting, though in the dark he could barely see anything, if there was even an end to the endless pit that was over the side of the ledge.

At least the steps would not be giving out underneath him.

Leeroy tensed. The sound of crunching of bone beneath his boots were loud, exceedingly loud, rattling even his eyes peer out from behind the paper-thin slit in his helm. There were so many bones, thousands of them scattered across the floor of the catacombs and as far as his eyes could see after climbing down the ladder.

Heroes of ages before, their bones yet all forgotten down here, scattered amidst each other and never to be properly recognized. Briefly, the paladin wondered. If there was anyone that still remembered someone that was buried down there, or if they were all dead and buried just like everything surrounding him.

“ _Behind you!_ ”

He spun around, throwing up his shield just in time for a rusted spear to connect squarely with the silver knob at the center of Sanctus with an echoing _clang_. One of the many skeletons had rose from the pile of bones, bits of armor still wrapped around its bleached white bones; teeth chattering like a man freezing in the cold of winter. Just as its brethren had, two glowing points of light stared back into his own from the holes inside its skull.

Perhaps at one time, this was some brave knight, someone that had ventured out to fight for a cause just as he had been.

Leeroy felt a pang of pity strike his chest. This wouldn’t have been what the owner of those bones – whoever he might have been – wanted. The dead deserved to be put to rest, instead of being – being desecrated like this… the undead already cannot die properly, there was no need to torment those that have already passed into the great beyond.

“May this grant upon you the peace that you so deserve, unknown one.” He murmured.

He kicked at the skeleton’s shin. Its brittle bones snapped, sending the undead warrior tumbling onto the ground, though not for long. He raised Grant high above his head, bringing it down with a loud crunch: quick, simple, and efficient, even if the method by which was entirely of brute strength.

In another occasion, this was one that deserved a prayer to send off the soul in question.

Leeroy stopped, midway reaching for the talisman at his belt. What was that sound?

He strained his ears. Fragments of words murmured at a hurried pace that seemed like a man trying to pass on a secret that nobody else is supposed to know – oh!

 _Found you_.

The paladin hurried around the corner. A smile curled across his mouth: there, just as he expected, stood a mage wrapped in tattered robes, hunched over with skin matching those of a corpse’s. His, _its_ , glowing orange eyes widened, seemingly out of fear, stumbling back several steps until its back collided with the stone wall.

“Leave the dead in peace, accursed creature.” He hissed. Grant let out a bout of laughter in his mind, mixing with the sound of bones crunching, crushed underneath the massive great hammer’s weight and accompanied by a spray of black blood onto the wall. The very impact from the blow sent a violent tremor through both the walls and the ground, leaving behind a dent plastered with bits of flesh.

Silence.

Nothing but a pile of mangled flesh was left in the place where the necromancer once stood, a grisly sight that would have made the stomach of a normal man churn. Leeroy grimaced: the smell was _ungodly_ , pungent and thick in the air like the rot that had spread to the rest of this place, only best described as the stench of meat that had been left sitting outside in the air for far too long.

His gaze went to the coiled sword, jutting out from the pile of bones and ash in the other end of the chamber. How convenient, that there should be one of those bonfires down here in this accursed place.

“ _Almost feels as though this is planned, surely this feels suspicious to you as well, master_.” Sanctus’ healing aura hummed softly at the back of his mind alongside of the shield’s bell – like voice.

“Certainly does, there’s something wrong about all of this. Although, I cannot exactly place my fingers on it.” He murmured. Leeroy twirled a stray thread from the now dust stained white cloth hanging from his cuirass; nevertheless, the paladin reached out towards the hilt of the swords. In an instant, fire flared from the base on which the twisted blade sat, singing with the familiar lust for the black humanity sprites that coursed through every single undead.

“ _Bah, I can give a care less, so long as I have a chance to crush more foes_.”

“Soon enough, Grant, soon enough.”

Leeroy scratched at his chin after setting his weapons down by the bonfire, removing his helm for the first time since he had entered the accursed depths. Right, Pinwheel, his target that sits at the very bottom of the catacombs –

Still remembering that was comforting. He still was a good distance away from being hollowed, hopefully…

He reached into his pouch, digging around its contents until his fingers closed around what he was looking for.

Between his fingers danced a familiar sprite. The humanity wriggled, Leeroy closing his fingers around it until it disappeared between his metal clad digits and into his own body: a twitch running through him. If there was any bit of fog on his thoughts, they disappeared along with the sprite. He was here, he was _human_ still.

“I am far from hollow.” He proclaimed, to nobody. “I have a purpose that I know of, _I won’t die here_.”

But for now, a nap wouldn’t hurt that badly.

Laying Sanctus down on the dust covered stone floor, Leeroy laid down. Gods, at this point, a bed would be something that was extremely foreign, that was how long he had been traveling out here in this land forsaken by the gods: tucking his helm underneath his left arm, Grant by his right side.

Within only a few seconds, his eyes fluttered closed.

The dream he had could only be best described as only a little better than a nightmare.

_Everywhere he looked, twisted corpses stared back at him. Leeroy shuddered: they were dead and gone, but it didn’t change the cold chill that ran up his spine at their cold, dead eyes staring at him, hundreds of eyes littered throughout perhaps what was once a plaza. Or at least the ones that still had what little was left of their eyes._

_He took one step forward; wait –_

_He froze. He didn’t have Grant nor Sanctus, only his bare fists, and_ someone _was watching him._

_“Who’s there?!” Leeroy clenched his fists, eyes scanning his surroundings, searching for the source of it all. Someone had to be there, someone had to have been watching him for him to feel this._

_“Brave of you to venture down here alone, Paladin.”_

_He jerked at the voice. The voice, it came directly behind him._

_Leeroy spun around, fist raised. From the darkness, a pair of eyes stared back at him, icy blue eyes that radiated malice, enough it felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head._

He jerked up, panting. Leeroy lifted his hand to his chest, exhaling a shaky breath. Lords, he could have sworn he still could feel his heart racing even through the covering of his elaborate armor. Whatever that was, the presence of he, _it_ , meant nothing friendly, and the place that he had seen, by the gods, that was.

“Whatever could have happened there..?” He wondered, albeit out loud. There were corpses, _hundreds_ and maybe even thousands of corpses littering the grounds of the plaza. Leeroy twitched, another shudder raking their way down his spine: gods, with every second he remembered more of the dream, the more details he saw in them.

Those bodies, they had to have been submerged underwater for an extended period. Their skin not only were green, rotting with a pungent smell he was thankful he hadn’t the misfortune to be subjected to due to the very nature of dreams itself; maggots writhing in holes bore through them, as well as exposed bone that were also coated in a thick layer of greenish rot.

“ _Whatever had happened, that was a land forsaken by the gods_.” Sanctus murmured. Leeroy nodded in agreement. Aye, it would serve to explain the perpetual night that lined over the area, darkness so thick and even more choking than the darkness of the tomb that they were in currently.

“ _Though, why should we even bother to concern ourselves with this now of all times?_ ”

Grant’s voice was filled with irritation. Leeroy mentally agreed, though not wording his thoughts: they would do good to get up and get going.

The paladin stood, donning his helmet and sliding his arm through the leather and steel bracer attached to Sanctus, lifting Grant with his other:

By the time he made his way to the bridge leading to the lower parts of the Catacombs, Leeroy had lost count of how many skeletons he had to kill. There were just far too many, too many of them, for one that he killed, at least two others would rise in their spot, even with the divine property of the steel that was used to forge his weapon.

He gasped, then coughing hard. Lords, his throat felt like there were knives raking through it, daggers cutting into his flesh, and a hint of copper surged up to his lips.

Another arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing his shoulder. The paladin’s head snapped towards the direction of the projectile: his attention focusing on the archer that stood at the far end of the room. Those poor creatures were more intelligent than he had initially given them credit for, even without their master to give them orders.

Just as all the other ones before it, he murmured a prayer over the pile of bones left behind. At least they would not be serving the will of the necromancers any longer.

The tombs were, though, a maze at the best. He had been to this corner of it, hadn’t he? Or was it somewhere else that just looked the same: they all had the same layout, just one winding hallway lined with niches filled with the bones and skeletons of heroes long dead and gone, each staring at him with their fortunately dead eyes for the current duration of time.

“Seems like we got ourselves into a bit more of a pickle than I had earlier anticipated.”

Leeroy forced out a laugh to push down the rising thought that he was getting lost here in those catacombs. Part of his mind strayed, wondering just how many of the warriors of the past had lost their way in this wretched place and only ended up adding their skeleton to the innumerable amount of bones that littered the floors.

“ _If anything, master, remember that Pinwheel is just at the literal very bottom of this place_.”

Sanctus’ voice pierced through his thoughts: “ _Find a safe way to drop down from those cliffs, and we should find his lair in no time._ ”

“ _As if that isn’t the very obvious looking sarcophagus chamber at the very end of the valley of this hellish place that we are in right now_.” Grant grumbled –

 _Oh my_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overall I'm pretty pleased with how this is moving along so far! Next chapter we might get a peek from our Chosen Undead's point of view, or it might be Pinwheel, who knows ;) as usual, lemme know how you like it, and a special thanks to MsLittleTail for kind comments on my last chapter!


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